


Meeting Halfway

by EveryoneHasAmnesia, ohnoooooo



Series: Ineffable Humans [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, God - Freeform, I'll show myself out, M/M, Picnics, Satan - Freeform, Shameless Smut, Slash, Smut, Texting, benedict cumberbatch as satan, but also shameless angst, crowley invented unlimited data and low battery lives, demons invented phones and that's why we're all addicted now prove me wrong, gene kelly - Freeform, i don't know why i'm sorry i jsut feel like i should be, im sorry, soccer mom god, there's texting in this fic sorry not sorry, this fic is not actually about phones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryoneHasAmnesia/pseuds/EveryoneHasAmnesia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoooooo/pseuds/ohnoooooo
Summary: Aziraphale forces Crowley to go on a picnic and everything goes both down and uphill from there. They fall in love, but it's not the only sort of falling that might happen.





	Meeting Halfway

It starts innocently enough, or rather, it starts as innocently as anything between a half-hearted demon and a sometime lazy angel could start. With a picnic, and classic cinema.    
  
Aziraphale is just raising a cream cracker spread thickly with dill spread to his lips, when he feels a buzzing in his left pocket and sighs. Because there’s only one person who would text him, in fact there was only one person in all of existence who had his mobile phone number. 

_ Swung by the shop. It’s all closed. Where do you go on a Friday night? C _

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t  _ always  _ at home. 

_ I rather regret giving you this number, you know. A _

_ You had to give me the number. I gave you the phone. C _

_ Yes, and these things are clearly the work of your lot. In ten years good conversation will have passed by and everyone will be hunched over these little devices every waking hour of the day. A _

_ That’s the idea, angel. C _

Aziraphale chuckles slightly, pops the cracker into his mouth, and types back, quickly. 

_ Do leave me alone, Crowley. I’m seeing a film. A _

_ You’re TEXTING? In a CINEMA? How devious. C _

_ Shush. I’m not in a cinema. There’s a film playing in the park. A _

_ Oh? Is there a Clark Gable festival in town? C _

Aziraphale’s cheeks colour a little, and he huffs, infuriated that Crowley both thinks he knows him so well...and also apparently knows him so well. 

_ It’s Singing In the Rain. So. Gene Kelly. A _

_ I was so close, just give that one to me. C _

_ When’s it over? C _

_ Another hour. A  _ Aziraphale pauses for just a moment, before typing out his next text message.  _ You should join me. It’s splendid. A _

_ Oh, it’ll take me another hour to get there, without a miracle. Darn it to heck. C _

_ I was going to see if you’ve been called towards Edinburgh lately. I could save you a trip. C _

Aziraphale’s aware that people around him are starting to look at him because of the constant buzzing of his phone. “Sorry,” he whispers, “work.” And it is work, of course. Why else would Crowley be contacting him?

_ I’m afraid not. Sorry. A _

_ It’s not your fault I’m working unopposed. C _

_ Tell your lot to up their game. C _

Aziraphale chuckles and slips his phone under the blanket he’s draped across his legs, so that he can text without the light distracting other Gene Kelly fans. 

_ What are you doing up in Edinburgh? A _

_ There’s someone who’s running for parliament who’s an honest, compassionate, intelligent representative of the people. C _

_ It’s disgusting. This is politics. C _

_ Oh my. Well. Maybe I should go. A _

_ Or rather, I should alert the people upstairs of the possibility of your side going. So we can create a counter attack. A  _

_ And then neither of us should go. A _

_ I knew even that couldn’t tempt you away from your boyfriend, Gene Kelly. C  _

_ Let us have this one. We have the rest of parliament. It should be a set :(. C _

Aziraphale considers for a moment. Because he really  _ should  _ go and tell his superiors. But there’s still an hour or so of the film left, and…

_ Oh bother. A _

_ I suppose. We’ve rather given up on politics. A _

_ Think of it as a strategic concession. This’ll settle my lot for a while. C _

_ We might get the summer off. C _

_ We could go to Cornwall. You simply must try the fudge. A  _ Aziraphale doesn’t realise exactly what he’s sent until it’s too late, and then his thumbs are flying quickly across the keys, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on his brow.  _ Or. I mean if we’re both in Cornwall at the same time. By chance. A _

_ That doesn’t seem likely. We may have to plan it. C _

Aziraphale blinks, and then types slowly. 

_ A holiday? Together? A _

_ When you say it like that you make it sound so serious. And forbidden. C _

_ I’ll just give you a lift, angel. Visit your sweet shop. If you want. C _

_ A lift to Cornwall? That’s over five hours. A _

_ We’ll need a picnic basket. A _

_ There’s no eating in the Bentley. She’s pristine. C _

Aziraphale smiles fondly. Crowley’s fascination with his car is just one of the things Aziraphale likes about him. Just a small glimpse at the sweeter parts of the demon that are more often than not hidden. 

_ For the picnic. Obviously. A _

_ It’s five hours back. Maybe you should pack two. C _

_ Well, aren’t we staying in Cornwall for a while? I’ll pack some of the local fair. A _

_ You must, yeah. C _

_ You know I’ve never been? C _

_ To Cornwall? It’s beautiful, and the fish and chips! Yes, you simply must give me a lift. A _

_ I meant on a picnic. C _

_ WHAT? A _

Well, that decides it. Aziraphale snaps his fingers, expending a little more energy than usual on a rather large miracle that he hopes his superiors will overlook, or not notice at all, and then there Crowley is, sitting next to him on the tartan blanket while Gene Kelly softly croons on the large projector. To the people around them, it appeared as if Crowley just strolled up and sat next to Aziraphale, although of course the angel and demon know better. 

“Now,” Aziraphale says, briskly, “do you prefer chevre, or brie?” He holds up one finger. “Don’t answer that, it’s impossible to choose. I’ll just give you a little of each.”    
  
“You…” Crowley looks at the large wicker basket sitting between them, “Did you already have this picnic with you?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale snorts as he hands Crowley a plate of cheese, crackers, and grapes, “the film is almost two hours long, Crowley.” He looks impatiently at the demon until he takes his first bite of cheese, and then continues pulling food out of the picnic basket. Nothing extravagant, just some parma ham, a baguette, some crystallised fruit. He’s just started to spread a little foie gras on a piece of toast when he hears an affronted noise from the demon next to him.    
  
“I know what that is, angel, and there’s no way in hell I’m eating it.” Crowley’s nose is wrinkled and Aziraphale splutters.    
  
“It’s a delicacy and it’s  _ very  _ expensive -”

“It’s LIVER -”

“Shh!” The couple on the blanket next to them shoots them a dirty look and Aziraphale clears his throat and makes a face at Crowley.    
  
“Try it!” He hisses. 

“No!” 

“Try it!”

_ “No.”  _

_ “Just -”  _ Aziraphale lets out a frustrated groan and shoves the cracker and foie gras into Crowley’s mouth in one quick motion. He watches as Crowley’s eyes widen and he blushes a little when he realises what he’s done. His fingers are slightly sticky - a combination of the foie gras and Crowley’s...well. Aziraphale’s fingers were just in his mouth.

“Go on then,” Crowley’s low voice shakes him out of his thoughts, “next one.” And then he opens his mouth again. 

“I - the next one isn’t liver, so you can just -”   
  
“Go on, angel, I don’t have all day again.” And there he is again, his mouth open. Expectant. 

“Th-this one,” he says finally, holding a cracker to the demon’s lips. “Is smoked salmon with a dill creme fraiche topping…” He puts it onto the demon’s tongue and watches as Crowley chases the corners of his mouth with his tongue, searching for any wayward creme fraiche. 

“Mmm,” he says, smiling in a way that makes Aziraphale feel hot around the collar, “what else?”    
  
“Well that’s,” the angel searches in the basket so that his eyes can have just a few moments away from the demon, “that’s the last of the savory - you’ve tried a little of everything. But I have raspberry milles feuilles and french macarons.” He holds up a delicate pastry and lets a small huff of laughter. “Pudding,” he says jovially, “very…” he trails off as Crowley opens his mouth to be fed again, “important.” And then, when Crowley doesn’t move his hand to take one, he leans forward slowly and holds the edge of the milles feuilles against the demon’s lips.    
  
“It’s good,” Crowley murmurs after the first bite, and then after the second, he catches Aziraphale’s wrist and licks a drop of Chantilly cream off of his thumb.    
  
Aziraphale  _ gasps,  _ suddenly overwhelmed with longing, with every sensation he’d ever dared to dream of and then locked away, and overall, thing thing he can feel above anything else, above the lust and desire and uncertainty, is  _ love.  _ He can feel love radiating, and not just from him.    
  
“W-we’re,” he finally finds his voice, “we’re in a  _ park. _ ”

“Is that your only objection?” And Crowley’s dipping down his dark glasses to reveal his eyes, their characteristic gold with black slits almost shining at Aziraphale in the dusk light. 

“No,” Aziraphale says, breathlessly, “but...but the others don’t really seem to matter, overall.” He traces the sharp edges of Crowley’s features with his eyes. “Or rather, I can’t seem to bring myself to care.”

“Say the word,” Crowley says, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale, “say the word, angel, and I’ll take you home. Mine or yours, wherever you want.” 

“Alright then.” Aziraphale pauses for a moment, only a moment, and then threads his fingers through Crowley’s. “The word.”    
  
***

In an instant they’re in Crowley’s flat, and despite the fact that Aziraphale’s seen it quite a few times he’s always surprised by how  _ green  _ it is. He looks around for a few more moments, and then his brow wrinkles.    
  
“Did you send my picnic basket home?”    
  
“Let the street urchins have it,” Crowley murmurs, leading Aziraphale through a veritable jungle of houseplants towards what the angel can only assume is the demon’s bedroom, “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

He steps close and takes his glasses off. “Unless it’s the food you wanted. I can get you that.”    
  
Aziraphale loves Crowley’s eyes. He always has. Which is very very disturbing because his eyes are ever present and very stark reminder of the sheer demonic nature of his counterpart. “I bought it at Harrod’s,” he almost whispers, “the basket.” But then suddenly he’s stepping closer, and he raises his hand to rub gently at Crowley’s jawline as all thoughts of his picnic basket seem to slip away. 

Crowley leans into his touch, and Aziraphale’s throat goes dry as he comes dangerously close to saying something he shouldn’t, and then Crowley’s arm is snaking - how appropriate - snaking around his waist and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter as Crowley’s lips descend onto his neck, and then the demon’s moving up to his jaw, until finally,  _ finally,  _ Crowly’s lips are pressed against his own. 

And in that moment it’s like a light turns on in Aziraphale, because he presses close to Crowley and moans as they smash their lips together, because he’s wanted this for so long but he’s always been to much of a coward to  _ take  _ it.    
  
“The bed,” Aziraphale gasps out. He’s too frightened to name what he’s feeling. Afraid to push Crowley away.    
  
And in a tangle of limbs they fall onto Crowley’s black silk sheets as one or both of them miracles away the clothes that they’re wearing. Crowley’s stopped speaking. He seems raw with need, kissing down Azirapahale’s neck. His hands find the curve of Aziraphale’s hips, and Aziraphale gasps as he squeezes the soft flesh there.    
  
“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, “was every part of you made perfect?” 

Azirapahle lies back and moans as Crowley kisses a trail down his stomach, skipping briefly over his cock to nibble at his soft thighs, before pausing briefly, hovering over Aziraphale, panting, and looking at him with uncertainty in his eyes. 

“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale whispers, rubbing his hands over the smooth skin of Crowlry’s shoulders. Sex, he thinks, might be the most wonderful of all mankind’s discoveries. A physical manifestation of love, a - he gasps as Crowley sucks him down with no warning and tugs sharply on the demon’s hair. 

Crowley slides his hands under Aziraphale’s arse, squeezing in time with the bobbing motion of his head, and Aziraphale is already feeling like he might come undone when Crowley licks a finger and slides it gently between his cheeks to tease at his hole. Aziraphale wriggles, and then - just another very small miracle - there’s a bottle of lubricant in his hand which he passes down to Crowley. 

“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” he murmurs, “you. Inside of me.”

“You should have said something, angel.” Crowley leans forward, kissing Aziraphale’s hip and nipping at his belly as he slides a finger inside Aziraphale to prepare him. “I didn’t think you went in for this.” 

“I don’t, usually.” Aziraphale frames Crowley’s face in his hands and kisses him. “You’re being rather selfish, doing all the touching. When is it my turn to worship you?”

Crowley’s grinning, his teeth beared, but his touch is gentle as he works him open, and then he’s lining up the head of his cock with Aziraphale’s hole and pushing gently but insistently inside of him. Aziraphale throws his head back, because this is glorious, perfect, and he hesitates for only a moment, but Crowley is a  _ demon _ so surely he won’t mind and so Aziraphale  _ rakes  _ his fingers down Crowley’s chest. In this moment all he can think of is their flesh against flesh, bouncing together, and oh the phenomenal things that can be done with bodies. 

Crowley’s confident, self-assured look cracks as Aziraphale scratches him. “Yes,” he almost whines, “yes, I’m all yours. So utterly yours.” 

“And I am yours,” Azirapahle leans up and presses his lips to Crowley’s again, and he can’t help what slips out, “beloved.” They continue to move together, bodies entwined in a perfect dance, and then suddenly he’s glowing, white and pure, and then he cums, gasping against Crowley as his legs shake and his eyes roll closed.    
  
Aziraphale buries his face in Azirapahle’s shoulder and rides out his own orgasm, and then he’s collapsing to the side, panting and exhausted, and reached into the bedside table. Azirapahle frowns, watching with slight confusion until he sees that Crowley has pulled out a spare pair of dark glasses and is sliding them on, breathing deeply as he collapses back into the pillow. 

“No,” Aziraphale takes the glasses off him, “keep them off, just for a few moments.” He smiles softly. “I love seeing your eyes.” 

Crowley stiffens at the loss, but he puts his arm around Aziraphale and slowly relaxes again. “Whatever you say, boss,” he says, and kisses his hair.    
  
“Boss,” Aziraphale scoffs, “don’t be blasphemous.”    
  
As if he hadn’t just blasphemed all over Crowley’s sheets.   
  
***

It’s a whirlwind after that, one more broken rule, one more thing to hide, one more secret to share, kisses exchanged in Cornwall (Crowley tried the fudge, among other things), and hands held in secret corners of London. They’re both ecstatic, flying, until one afternoon when Crowley’s doing a bit of light tempting up north and he feels his phone vibrate against his leg. 

_ Crowley. Where are you? A _

_ Liverpool. Don’t ask. What’s up, angel? C _

There’s a long pause that Crowley doesn’t think much of until he receives Aziraphale’s next message. 

_ I don’t know what to do. A _

_ Okay. Going to need a but more to go on? C _

_ You alright? C _

_ They found out. A _

_ I’m on the run, as it were. A _

The colour drains from Crowley’s face as he stares down at the two little messages. They found out.  _ They  _ found out. Which means his angel is in danger. 

_ Okay. Don’t panic. This is fine, this is alright, we’ll sort this out, don’t worry. C _

_ I’ll think of something. C _

_ Any second now I’ll think of it. C _

_ The Antarctic! C _

_ No one lives there, we’ll live in the snow! C _

It seems like ages before Azirapahle answers him again and Crowley screams at his phone so loudly that a woman walking by him in the street jumps. 

_ They say I’m hellbound. A _

_ I don’t want to fall, Crowley. I can’t be a demon! A _

And he can’t. Crowley knows that better than anyone. When he thinks if the angel - of  _ his  _ sweet angel in the depths of hell it makes palms sweat and his throat dry up. Aziraphale is too sweet, too soft. He can’t go to hell.    
  
_ Hellbound for what?? For what?? A kiss or two? You’re supposed to be full of love, it’s not your fault, I took advantage. You did tell them it’s my fault, didn’t you? C _

_ I invented temptation, it’s what I do! C _

_ And I have done hardly any evil so really you’re falling on a sword here! C _

_ Hellbound for loving you. A _

Crowley whimpers. “No,” he whispers, “oh angel, no. Not me. Not for me.”

_ So stop it. C _

_ Go to Head Office and do a million years of paperwork. C _

_ Stay where you belong. C _

_ I can’t! Go back to what? To nothing. A _

_ Yes you can. And you should. C _

_ Because I don’t want you in hell. C _

Crowley closes his eyes, heart tearing, hating what he has to do, and continues to type. 

_ I see enough of you here, and really, I never said I loved you and I don’t. You’re an idiot. And a fool. C _

_ And I don’t want you and it was all just a trick and you fell for it because you’re stupid. C _

Crowley leans against a wall and presses his face into his hands. He has to. To save Aziraphale. 

_ You’re a liar. A _

_ You’re a LIAR and I know you’re a liar because I can feel that you love me. A _

Crowley screams and this time it’s a man in a sharp-looking business suit who jumps as he walks by. 

_ You’re deluded. I’m a demon. They cut that part out of us when we fell. C _

_ Well. Burned it out. C _

_ Can’t you hear just how crazy you sound? Stop it. Hell’s too much for you, and I couldn’t keep you safe. Don’t think it would be better there, or okay because you Fell. C _

_ Then we’ll go to Antarctica. Like you said. A _

_ That was stupid. They’d go to the edge of the universe to condemn an angel who’s gotten too close to the edge. I know. C _

It’s so long until the next message that he thinks maybe he’s convinced Aziraphale. Maybe he’s saved him, but then his phone buzzes again. 

_ Then. I’ll Fall. And leave hell as soon as I can. You don’t ever go to hell. A _

_ I’ve been down here a long time. C _

_ Aziraphale. It hurts so much. It hurts and you can never forget that you can’t go back. Is there anything at all you can do? What if you brought me in? They want to get rid of me, don’t they? Think of all the things I’ve taken credit for. I’ll be your prisoner.  _

_ They might kill you. A _

_ I won’t let them hurt you. You are NOT evil. A _

_ If they kill me, nothing’s left to tempt you. I don’t think Hastur or Ligur are your type. C _

There’s another agonizing pause, and then when Crowley’s phone lights up again he blinks at the message he sees. 

_ You’re not a temptation. You’re my soulmate. A _

Crowley’s crying, and by now every person that passes by him on the street is certain that he has had too much to drink. 

_ I’m so sorry, angel. I didn’t think you were really in danger. I loved you from afar for thousands of years and I should have left it that way. C _

_ Ha! I knew you loved me. A _

Despite himself, Crowley rolls his eyes. 

_ Can I see you? C _

_ I know what I have to do. And I have to do it alone. A _

Crowley frowns.    
  
_ What? C _

_ I’m going to find God. And I’m going to plead your case. A _

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “What?” He stands up and yells at his phone. “You BLOODY IDIOT, AZIRAPHALE.”   
  
“Don’t look, Jane,” a woman whispers as she walks by with her little girl. 

_ God is the one who cast me out! I don’t think she’s going to change her mind now that I’ve been out corrupting! She could do worse than cast you out. C _

_ I overstated how terrible hell is. It’s mostly just the worst in existence, it’s better than death. C _

_ Mostly. C _

_ I don’t think you corrupted me. I’m going to argue that I redeemed you! A _

_ And if she’s any kind of Divine at all, she’ll see that. Why should the humans get redemption and not you? A _

_ Let me see you once more. C _

_ It’s too dangerous, my love. But I will see you again. I promise. A _

Crowley stares at his phone for a long time, and then he closes his hand around it and crushes it until it’s nothing but dust. 

***

It’s several months later when Crowley slips back into a small flat he’s been temporarily renting in Peru. In an effort to help his angel he’s spent the better part of a year wearing his face and travelling the globe, spreading a false trail for heaven to follow while Aziraphale does his impossible task.    
  
Crowley is still in Aziraphale’s form as he pours himself a whiskey, trying not to think of the last time he saw his angel. They hadn’t been in contact since that last text message, but Crowley was sure he was alive. He had to be  _ alive _ . Even if he was off on some ridiculous mission. Crowley huffs and looks around the room.    
  
“I mean,” he says to no one, “even if he does find her, what the bloody hell is he going to say? ‘Hi God, no one’s heard from you in a long time, how’s it been, so remember Crowley? He used to be called Crawly?’” Crowledoes this sometimes, because it helps, it helps with the anger and the stupid bloody game he’s been playing in his head over and over again since Aziraphale left, “‘He probably used to be called an Angelic name, but you know - everything! Haha. So. I redeemed him, and he’s not really evil and also they’re casting me out but surely you must remember creating one soul and putting it into two bodies and that was him and I love him let him come home??”    
  
Crowley looks in the mirror and Aziraphale’s face melts away again. “Stupid angel,” he murmurs, looking at himself in the mirror, “I’m not worth it. I never have been.”

But before Crowley can continue on the rather enjoyable self-loathing rant here’s gearing up for, a bright white beam of light surrounds him and he gasps, looking at his hands, which are glowing.    
  
“Oh fff -”

He grunts as he hits a chair hard, blinking at the stark, white room he finds himself in. When he looks over he can’t help the surge of joy that he feels at the sight of the angel seated next to him.    
  
“Aziraphale! How -”   
  
“Aziraphale and the demon Crowley,” a voice interrupts, and Aziraphale looks at him with a nervous smile.    
  
“I found God,” he whispers, “and she...wasn’t alone.” 

Crowley blinks, and then turns his eyes forward, staring at the two people he sees seated in front of him.    
  
The woman is short, but fierce-looking. She’s wearing a matching powder-blue sweater set and pearls, and sporting a rather severe haircut, with a long fringe in the front and shorter spiked layers in the back. She looked like someone’s mother. Someone’s very angry mother. Next to her is an irritated looking man in a suit. His dark hair is slicked back, which only serves to emphasize how severe his cheekbones are.    
  
“Aziraphale and the demon Crowley,” the woman, repeats, “you are called before myself, God, creator of all, and Lucifer, Satan, the Adversary, corrupter of souls, in order to face your crimes.”    
  
“I didn’t,” Aziraphale murmurs, “expect them to be  _ friends.  _ They were having brunch when I found them.”    
  
“Right. Crimes.” Crowley’s eyes widen behind his dark glasses, and he can’t help but keep glancing at Aziraphale. He looks, if not precisely good, very much like he hasn’t been banished to oblivion and the world remade so that he never existed. So that’s good. 

“I’m sorry, are you for or against?” Crowley asks. “The crimes.”

Satan sits up slightly straighter and speaks for the first time. When he speaks his voice us melodic, deep, and rich. Crowley can see what God sees in him.    
  
“Tread lightly,” he rumbles, and Crowley swallows. 

“It has come to our attention,” says God, studying her freshly applied french manicure, “that in addition to...cavorting across enemy lines, the pair of you are objectively  _ awful  _ at being an angel and a demon, respectively.” She looks at Aziraphale. “You are a glutton.”    
  
The angel colours. “Well I don’t know about -”

“You are a glutton,” she interrupts, “you are slothly, and you covet worldly things.” She sniffs. “Such as  _ books. _ ”

“Didn’t expect God to come out against books,” Crowley says, in an effort lessen the blow because oh, his poor Aziraphale. 

“Tread. Lightly.” Satan interrupts. “We’ve been reviewing your records as well. It seems you took credit for the sacking of Jerusalem when you were, in fact...tempting knights to give up the fight and start orphanages.” 

“Technically,” Crowley says, “I tempted them to  _ abandon  _ their holy mission, sir, and to uh,” he glances around, “to harbour the enemy of the church.” 

“You  _ did _ ?” Aziraphale practically beaming at Crowley. “Oh darling,” and he reaches up to touch Crowley’s cheek, before appearing to realize exactly who they’re in front of and dropping his hand quickly. 

“And then there’s that,” God picks a piece of lint off of her sweater, “your relationship. It’s entirely inappropriate, and unbefitting to both of your stations.”    
  
Crowley looks between God and Satan and has a thought that he swallows down quickly, with a glower from the sharply cheekboned Prince of Darkness. 

“Which is to say,” God continues, “that it’s been decided that both of you will be demoted.” She looks over to Satan. “To human.” 

“Human,” Crowley echoes, stunned. “Like. Actually just, run of the mill - and when we die? What happens when we die?”

“All humans wonder that,” Satan says, smirking, “you’ll fit in in every way.” 

“Angel, if you’re going to throw me under the bus you’d better start now,” Crowley says, but he’s already putting his arm around the back of Aziraphale’s chair. 

“ _ Human _ ?” Aziraphale blinks and looks over to Crowley. “But. But we’ve lived for millennia! And he’s  _ good!  _ I redeemed him!”

“Yes,” God agrees, “and he’s corrupted you. It’s all very…” She smiles. “Ineffable.” 

And then she snaps her fingers.    
  
***

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again, he’s in his books shop.    
  
And he feels  _ bizarre.  _

He feels more acutely aware of some things, and utterly dulled to others. He used to be able to look at a book and see the number of pages in a second, and now they all blur into one big stack. He can feel sweat on his brow in a way that he hasn’t before, and his clothes clinging to him, and he feels  _ warm.  _

Gone are some other things. He can’t feel Crowley anymore, only see him. His vision feels...zoomed out. Like he’s lost some of the details. He studies the demon in front of him as his eyes fill with tears, and he reaches up to remove Crowley’s dark glasses. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” he says, his voice breaking a little. His eyes are still a beautiful golden shade, but his irises are round. His pupils are round, human pupils. And suddenly Aziraphale is very aware of his hands on Crowley’s face, and of their skin touching. He’s never been so aware of his skin before. It never seemed important before. 

Crowley puts his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and they lean together for a moment, as Aziraphale’s head swims. His skin is clammy and his heart is beating too hard. It did beat while he was an angel, but he doesn’t recall it racing like this. A hand on Crowley’s chest tells him that the demon’s - the former demon’s - is racing too. 

“You look terrible,” Crowley says, “very pale. But it’s alright. Not as bad as I thought.” He wraps his hands around Aziraphale’s waist and pulls him close. “Don’t cry, love, don’t. We’ll make the most of it.” 

“50 years,” Aziraphale whispers, “ _ if  _ we both live to an extraordinary age. 45 or 40, if I improve my diet and start exercising. 30, most likely. Perhaps even less, with the way you drive. That’s all we have left together. After millennia.” He puts his head on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Oh.” Crowley stiffens in his arm, and if Aziraphale had to hazard a guess - and he does, because he can’t feel Crowley anymore, he’d say that the other man has only just realized their new mortality, and only just realized what that means. 

But then he’s brushing Aziraphale’s hair back, and looking at him with those golden eyes, which are both different and the same. “I will see more of you in these fifty years than I have in fifty centuries. I will see you every day - look at me, angel, every day. And we’ll stay every night. And we won’t hide from anyone, ever again.” 

He’s tearing up as well now, and Aziraphale lets out a quiet sob at the sight. 

“Doesn’t that sound like something to enjoy, angel?” Crowley says gently. 

Aziraphale nods, tears falling, but he smiles. “Yes. Every day together. Every night.” He wipes at his eyes. “You really,” he pauses, “you really shouldn’t call me that anymore, you know. It’s not true.” 

  
“Yes it is,” Crowley murmurs, “no one else could have saved me. No one else even wanted to.”    
  
And then the former demon presses their lips together, and in that moment, despite the uncertainty, and despite the fear, Aziraphale is certain that everything is going to be alright. 


End file.
